


心酸

by betweenforever (asukaflying)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Car Accidents, Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Character Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asukaflying/pseuds/betweenforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You said you weren't time jumping anymore"</p>
            </blockquote>





	心酸

**Author's Note:**

> Jongin's name, 金鍾仁, can be read Jin Zhong Ren.  
>  _inspired by 林宥嘉's[心酸](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5H9u0EJMPTc)_

The wind is blowing again, over the fields past the edge of the city, stirring the wheat and rubbing the blue heads of flax together, crows circling the corn. It skips over the highway, pushing against the sides of cars, edging them slightly out of their lane until it succeeds in setting a semi-trailer off course, sleepy driver slipping into the oncoming lane of traffic. The wind escapes to the sound of crushing metal, horns honking and voices screaming.  
  
The wind continues, slipping through the branches of trees, carrying leaves that scrape the bark of trees, rattling together like the skeletons of approaching winter. A squirrel perches on a tree branch, cornered by a dog barking at the base of the tree, torn leash the precursor to the shouts in the distance. The wind carries the scent of the squirrel away, blasting the dog's nose with the smell of metal and rust as it whimpers, retreating with its tail tucked between its legs.  
  
The wind wanders on, snapping deadheads off flowers, branches off trees, laundry from clotheslines as the wood and plastic pins are ripped in two by the gathering force as the wind rushes, speeding towards its destination.  
  
The wind howls through the city, snatching newspapers from fingers, turning umbrellas inside out and sending plastic chairs flying into traffic from the café stands that line the road. The wind doesn't care. It only has a single goal in mind.  
  
There, on the roof, there's a boy standing, black hair rustled by the fingers of a trespassing minstrel from the south; the wind storms in, pushing the interloper away as cool air collides with warm, sets the air into static and building ozone, barometer dropping as the warm wet air is pushed up and away.  
  
No matter.  
  
The wind wraps around the boy, snatching his breath away for a moment before giving it back, smooth tendrils of air smoothing over the tear tracks gouged down the boy's face as the boy smiles, the cold wind turning his lips blue and setting his gaunt bones shivering as it wraps around him in a chilly embrace, but the boy doesn't care, smiling with eyes shut.  
  
"Sehun," he whispers, barely an exhalation as the wind crawls down his throat, and the boy raises his arms, fingers outstretched and palms turned up as he steps off the edge of the building, wind snapping at the trailing edges of his clothing as he leaps into the past, a muffled boom sounding as both the wind and the flesh disappear, air rushing in to fill the vacuum.  
  
From up on the neighbouring roof, another boy watches, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip until flowers bloom red against the pale skin.  
  
"Don't go with him," he says, into the sudden stillness, the dead air, warm and heavy with the autumn rains, but there's no one there to hear, only the flag from the roof of the radio building hanging limply from its pole. "Stop living in the past."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Zitao can tell, by the way Jongin is watching him, that the slightly younger boy has something he wants to say, but his lungs are still full of cold air, his lips blue and fingers tingling, the stolen moments with Sehun fresh in his mind, fingernails running white lines down the skin of his back. There's no space for Jongin, not here, not now.  
  
He stumbles over a crack in the concrete, almost falls, would have fallen if Yixing hadn't caught his arm.  
  
"Tao-tao," he says softly, voice affectionate but firm, the way Yixing smiles but has a backbone of steel. "You can't do this anymore."  
  
"I can," Zitao says, and balls his fingers into fists, keeping the cold locked into his skin. Yixing sighs, steps ahead to open the door of the coffee shop as Yifan looks up from behind the mahogany counter, a faint tinkle of bells sounding somewhere up above them in the recesses of the shop ceiling.  
  
"Hot chocolate?" he asks, and Zitao nods, sinking into the soft leather of an armchair by the fireplace. He's always cold, now, not from the outside but a chill that comes from within. Yixing sits to the other side of the armchair, swinging his arm forward until his finger lightly graze Zitao's skin, pushing back the cold.  
  
Zitao lets himself feel warm, for just a moment, before he shifts his arm away, slipping into his lap. Yifan comes up with a metal tray bearing two mugs of steaming hot chocolate, his faceted dragon eyes spinning in concern.  
  
"You don't look so good, Tao," he says, setting the tray down on a low table. Close up, Yifan smells so warm, with that faint undertone of charred, burning. Zitao shivers, takes a sip of hot chocolate as it burns its way down his throat, leaving warmth in its wake.  
  
"I'm fine," Zitao says, frowning into his cup. The milk is dark with chocolate, thick with secrets. There's a cough from the window, as a lithe figure hops down out of the light.  
  
Lu Han holds a book, the pages flipping themselves despite the stillness of the interior of the shop. "You're lying, Taotao," he says, and he sounds sad. Zitao doesn't reply.  
  
"Zhongren says he saw you yesterday," Yixing says, picking up the thread of the conversation, an errant wind that snatches at Zitao's heels, too warm, too close. "You said you weren't time jumping anymore." His expression, if Zitao looks up, will be sad, so he doesn't look, the way he doesn't open his eyes when he jumps back into Sehun's arms again.  
  
"You promised," Yifan says, and there's a faint roar in his voice, the dragon stirring, scales scratching against his ribs. Zitao knows it hurts, and the shame only weighs him down.  
  
"I can't help it, okay!" he finally bursts out, avoiding the eyes of Yixing, Yifan, Lu Han all looking at him; he knows he keeps letting them down and it only hurts. "How would you feel if you lost the one who completes you?"  
  
And then he closes his mouth, aghast, as Yifan drops the tray in his hands and leaves the room.  
  
"You're not the only one who's lost someone," Lu Han says, but his hand on Zitao's back is warm, a fleeting caress before the bell tinkles overhead and the door swings shut behind him. Yixing only smiles sadly at him, doesn't move to touch. Some things can't be fixed, even if your hands can heal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Jongin finds him, not on the roof this time, but sitting in the library, in the stillness, lines of books stretching out in every direction. Zitao is slumped against the shelves, a heavy book lying open in his lap, hands draped over the parquet floor.  
  
"Zhongren," Zitao says, opening his eyes when Jongin sinks down beside him, perched on his heels. He doesn't look surprised, just empty. Jongin's eyes wander over the open page, _The Laws of Thermodynamics_ pops out at him and he shakes his head, reaching down to take Zitao's hand in his, fingers weaving together.  
  
"Come on," he says, when Zitao looks up, bewildered. "You're coming with me." He stills the protest budding on Zitao's mouth with a gentle finger; it hurts, the way his fingertip catches onto the roughness of Zitao's bottom lip, chewed ragged. Jongin doesn't say anything, just pulls Zitao gently to the window.  
  
"Where are we going?" Zitao asks, and Jongin lets go of Zitao's hand, as Zitao's forehead twists in confusion.  
  
"Do you trust me?" Jongin asks, and Zitao nods, a reflexive action that both hurts and sooths Jongin's aching heart. "You have to hold on tightly," he says, and wraps his arms around Zitao, feeling him stiffen slightly in surprise before long arms lift to wrap around Jongin's back, looping around his waist. It feels so soft and warm Jongin could cry, but he doesn't, not even when Zitao leans his head on Jongin's shoulder. Zitao is so cold, and Jongin just wants to take his sadness away.  
  
"On the count of three I'm going to jump," he says, and feels Zitao nodding into his skin, "Three, two, one—"  
  
There's a flicker, a flash, a bright yet soundless explosion of nothing as the air in the library pops, rushing in to fill a sudden void as Jongin and Zitao blink out into the bright sunshine, a warm breeze playing over their skin through the thin fabric of their clothing.  
  
Jongin holds onto Zitao for just a moment longer, letting himself cling, before he relaxes his grip, surprised when Zitao doesn't immediately step away, breathing a few heartbeats longer into Jongin's skin. When he does look up to take in the view, the ocean is reflected in his eyes.  
  
"Where are we?" he asks, as warm sunlight plays over his face. Jongin wants to trail his fingers over Zitao's cheekbones too, jealous of the sun, but he keeps his hands to himself.  
  
"We're at the beach," he says, and grins. "Race you to the ocean?" Zitao looks at him, frozen in one almost incredulous eye-blink, like he's forgotten how to do this, how to live, how to laugh, how to breathe, and Jongin lets himself—he reaches out a trembling hand to Zitao's cheek, pulls him into the present with just the faintest of touches, but his finger, when it touches Zitao's skin, feels like fire.  
  
Zitao's mouth breaks into a smile, the sun cresting the ridge of the horizon after a long dark night. "Loser has to buy the winner drinks for a week!" He's off before Jongin has a chance to reply, tearing his shirt off in one fluid motion as his feet pound over the sand, and Jongin has already lost before he even begins, but that's okay. He'll lose to Zitao every day of the week, if that means he can keep him.  
  
The reflection in Zitao's eyes, racing towards the sea, is of the sun.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> also posted [here](http://betweenforever.livejournal.com/1567.html) and written for [this](http://taobeis.livejournal.com/12311.html)


End file.
